Dorian
by INTP
Summary: An unusual girl, mutant or not, is taken by her brother, Bobby Drake, to the Xavier Mansion
1. Brother and Sister

            She let the sugar cubes drop into the cup of bitter chamomile and they dissolved with the stir of a dainty silver spoon as she pored over the book of fairy tales.  Happy prince, indeed, she thought, but still, her heart grew heavy, even after she'd read it more times than she could count.  All of the stories have unhappy endings, she thought, and pondered her own unforeseeable fate.  Forgetting her story, she held her lacy, gloved hands in front of her face.  What these could do…She thought drowsily, fate has nothing in store for me unless it is that I sit discontent all day in a dreamy parlor filled with sandalwood smoke and read children's stories.  She closed the book slowly; life will not end this way.  It will not continue this way, waiting for something to happen, waiting, waiting, barely able to breathe, much less laugh or even cry.  These hands could move the waters of the Nile to the Amazon and back, but she did not have the will even to cry; she didn't dare.  She heard the front door burst open and then a desperate cry, "Mom?  Dad?  Dorian?"  The cry faded after her name, but she imagined the name of her younger brother Ronnie being called as well.

            I'll wait for him to come to me, she thought.  And then, angry at her own indifferent laziness, she rose to her feet and hurried to answer her older brother's voice.

            "Bobby?  Bobby?  Is that you?"  At first, it came out soft, but with her quick certain steps came a growing confidence in her escalating voice.  Her white mary janes clattered against the marble tile, their frantic patter echoing the beat of her heart.  This is no hallucination, she thought, certainly I hear Bobby calling to me.  As she navigated through the labyrinthine halls of the Drake mansion, petticoat rustling and breath quickening, she wondered at Bobby's unannounced arrival.  Boarding schools didn't release students without at least some notification or parental permission, especially not a school for _them_.  She shuddered involuntarily, and then mentally chided herself—Bobby is one of them, too.  Does he accept it, she thought.  She couldn't imagine Bobby wasting his life away in a musky parlor, half-immersed in fanciful daydreams.

            She recalled his own stories, _real stories_ that he'd spoken to her about breathtakingly; even in his written letters she could sense his excitement, his vitality, his fearlessness in the face of action.  He was too gentle to ridicule her for the self-imprisonment she imposed upon herself.  But even his careful prodding could not pry her from the depths of her perfect delusions; much less coax her to come with him to the Xavier place.  She convinced him that she would unchain herself from this self-inflicted bondage, but the desolate look in his eyes betrayed his verbal encouragement.

            She rounded the corner which led to the lavish foyer, where her parents could greet their guests in a display of luxury and affluence.  As one walked into the front doors, the first object to catch their eye would be the family portrait, a seven week ordeal of complaint and boredom for Bobby and Ronnie, but the stillness and silence allowed her to drift away into her delicate illusions.  Her painted expression clearly showed this—the distant look in her eyes and faint smile betrayed her inattention.        

            She glanced around the open hall in search of her brother.  She saw no one, only the tapestries swayed with a slight draft, the torches cast dramatic shadows and dizzying reflections from the extravagant chandelier.  Her eyes scanned the room and widened at the stranger whose back faced her, his head lifted toward the portrait which rested above the great fireplace.  A slight gasp escaped from her lips, almost imperceptible, but he turned his head and gazed at her through the empty hall.

            An expression of surprise and curiosity mingled together on his face, making his youth seem even more childlike.  She walked hesitantly toward him, propelled by her own curiosity, and as she came closer to him, she inhaled sharply.  In the torches' glow, his eyes blazed luminously; dark gold orbs like wildfire peered at her through the semi-darkness.  His hair glowed like a wild flame too, and it wove and twisted past his ears in a long rebellious style, the same hue as his eyes.  His whole body, not a few inches taller than her own, seemed to radiate a fierce heat.  She rested a palm on her brow in surprise, and partly to wipe the sweat that was forming from his intense warmth.

            "Dorian," he said, without emotion.  Her mind raced frantically for something to say, his fiery presence had overwhelmed her, and she longed to retreat back to her parlor and rid her mind of this hellish demon.  But his gaze held her firmly to the floor.  

            "That is my name, stranger," she spoke, composing herself and straightening her shoulders stiffly, "But how did _you_ come by it and how did you get into Drake Manor?"  He seemed amused at her boldness and his shoulders moved with silent laughter.

            "How dare you mock me?  I am lady of the house, since my mother is away!"  He glanced at her clothes—the long sleeves and high ruffled collar, the short petticoat and lacy stockings—without subtlety and with obvious insult.  She blushed at his audacity, and then noticed his unusual manner of dress; no decent young man of reputation and stature would go out into society in such raiment.  She smiled secretly; her wealth and rank were her advantage, her weapon against his shortcomings as a gentleman.

            "And what does a commoner think he is doing in this noble house?" she sneered icily, embarrassed at her previous, but still gnawingly present, fear of him, humiliated by the enamor she felt as she stood in his feverish presence only moments ago.

            "Commoner?  What the _hell_ is wrong with you, girl?" he demanded, his anger flaring and his radiance growing with violent emotion.  She was taken aback by his coarse language and rude address.

            "Know your place!" she snapped and turned to find someone who would rid her of his pestilential presence.  She heard footsteps upon the stairs and glanced up at Bobby's tall frame, his long legs carrying him swiftly down the staircase.  A girl stood at his side, wearing a pair of lacy gloves, her own, Dorian noticed with dismay and with even more disapproval, noticed her clothing, which was even more unusual than the devil-boy's manner of dress.  A girl in man's trousers, she thought in vague horror, and wondered at Bobby's guest.  Bobby hurried toward his sister; his hands clamped on her shoulders and asked with worry, "Are you alright?  Dorian, I was looking for you.  I heard you shout."  Bobby glanced over the boy with the golden eyes, and he seemed wary of his fiery poise.

            "John, what did you say to her?"  Bobby moved closer to him.  "You know I told you she's fragile and—."  Their conversation was drowned out by the girl's voice, which was musical and sweet, and almost persuaded Dorian to forgive her mannish appearance.

            "Bobby told me about you."  Her lilting voice registered in Dorian's mind; hadn't Bobby mentioned a girl he favored, whose voice was clear with a tint of a Southern accent?  Her red hair too, he had described, had been streaked white by a freak accident.  Still, Dorian thought, she could have the decency to be ladylike and cover the irregularity with a shawl.

            "Your dress is beautiful, it's so lacy and…white, yes, white!  All you seem to be wearing is white, like a doll or an angel…"  Dorian smiled smugly at the compliment, and wondered why the girl didn't dress the same.  She shrugged her shoulders, and then suddenly remembered the girl's name from Bobby's letters.  

            "Marie, thank you.  It seems you've taken the liberty of wearing my gloves without my permission."  She blushed and stammered, "Well, I…Bobby, he said…you see—."  Bobby had ended his conversation with John and faced Dorian with suppressed anger.

            "You _do remember, Dorian, Rogue __has to __have some protection from touching others."  Rogue, what a silly name, Dorian thought, a name for a thief or a scoundrel.  _

            "Yes, brother, I understand.  You needn't address me as if I were a child."  A hot flush of anger rose in his cheeks.

            "If you would treat my friends with decency and courtesy, I would not feel the need to, sister!"  Dorian shrank back at his implications, and tears filled her eyes.

            "Bobby, I was only trying—I didn't mean to—."  Dorian broke into sobs and leaned against Bobby's chest.  He patted her softly and spoke comforting words, and then drew her away, lifting her chin so that he could look at her straight in her eyes.

            "But you must learn to treat everyone equally and fairly, as I have learned."  He broke off his speech.  Did he intend to tell her that she was delirious for not leaving her parlor?  Did he dare mention how she had never left the confines of the mansion and its grounds?  He shook his head faintly.  She would know soon enough what the _real_ world was like, even if she still seemed to live in a century past.  As he looked at her pityingly, he thought of his parents and rage boiled within him.  How could they raise a child like this, confuse her, _brainwash_ her into thinking she lived in an era that had ended before they were born, playing upon her brain as if her life was a science experiment?  He shook his head again to rid himself of those vengeful thoughts.  He would wreak his revenge upon their parents though, and Dorian would be conscious, she would be aware enough to understand his fury and she would surely bear her own wrath, she would want to see them suffer—those villainous monsters.


	2. A Flick of the Thumb

Bobby stepped back and looked tenderly at Dorian, innocently admiring his sister's frail visage.  Her ebony hair wound down to her shoulder blades in glossy waves, and her skin was pale—she usually wasn't allowed outside of the mansion and even with permission to go out on the grounds, she would choose to stay in her parlor of dementia.  Her eyes, like his, were frosted blue, only hers had a tinge of viridescence.  She stood only to his shoulder, her slender limbs were weak from lack of exercise or any strenuous activity and she shivered in the drafty hall.  Her face was still red and wet from crying, and he felt a stab of irritation, then guilt when he looked into her pleading eyes.

            "John, stay here, make sure Dorian doesn't go anywhere.  Rogue, come with me, I might need your help."  They hurried upstairs, leaving Dorian without any time to object.  She thought defiantly, _I am not a child to be babysat, especially not by _him.  She cast a glance to John, but he had turned to stand again to face the fireplace and the portrait.  Then she remembered Bobby's words, that she should be gentle and kind.  Bobby's words always made her feel guilty.  _He is_ a guest_, she thought, _and I should have been more welcoming, not arrogant_.  She stepped lightly to his side and glanced sidelong at his face.  His face was numbed in reverie, his eyes staring at the members of her family with a sort of longing.  _He is probably admiring my fair beauty_, she concluded, but concealed her contentment with the thought._

            "Why are you staring at my picture?"  He faced her and asked venomously, "What makes you think I was looking at _you?"  He turned to look at the portrait again and muttered under his breath, "Conceited brat."  She blushed equally in anger and mortification, then bowed her head in shame, fingers working, interlacing.  Tears started to well at the corners of her eyes, _but I will not allow them to fall_, she resolved.  __Maybe…she thought, and instantly they were gone.  She smiled slightly at her courage to use it, to stop what he had caused, and looked up at him in apology._

            "Forgive me, please, I didn't mean to be so arrogant."  The silence bore down upon her in expectation of his answer; he said nothing.  She pressed her mind for something to say, but discovered with awe that she was content in his presence without saying a word.  She rose against this resignation; she hardly knew him, he had been short with her, and her brother didn't seem to regard him with much trust or friendliness.  She huffed loudly, hoping he would become annoyed with her, acknowledge her presence at least, but he continued to stare in captivation.  In place of her anger came curiosity.  Why was her family's picture was so interesting, so entrancing, that he could stare at it without a word to say?  Curiosity continued to gnaw at her mind; she could find no explanation for his behavior.

            "Why are you staring at my family's portrait?" she asked, tempted to emphasize the word 'family'.  His gaze slowly shifted to her, his face lined with melancholy and he attempted to speak, but decided against it.  She abandoned the futile questioning with a sigh and felt the portrait tug at her own eyes, lifting her gaze to the five stark faces of the Drake family.  Bobby and Ronnie took after their father, blond hair, round faces, tall lanky figures, although Ronnie was still growing into his awkward frame.  Both boys were childishly handsome, but the malicious gleam in Ronnie's eyes echoed his father's menacing expression, while Bobby's face was free of negativity, it was innocent, ingenuous.

            Dorian's eyes shifted to her mother.  Dark hair cascaded down to her hips, deep black eyes stared out of a pale face—her mother's eyes seemed too, to have a deceptive quality.  Dorian mentally shook the thought from her head—her own mother, a malefactor?  She began to feel the engrossing property of the portrait, like magic it beckoned her eyes seductively.  A smile crept across her face—_what nonsense_.  She glanced stealthily at John, half-afraid he could read her immodest thoughts.  _Like he would care, she thought in contempt.  She felt her stomach sinking, thought; some of them _could _read minds.  _

She looked down at her hand, resting casually against the dainty petticoat, and spread her fingers, flexing them with power.  She noticed his hand too, inches from her own, relaxed and holding a small object, light glinting off of its silver metallic surface.  She tilted her head curiously, staring at the shiny item, wondering what it could possibly be.  She realized that he had turned his head toward her; she felt his eyes upon her.

Slowly she lifted her gaze, questioningly lingering on the odd garment that loosely covered his shoulder and torso, the sleeves hung at mid-bicep.  His eyes were alight, shimmering and smug.  He lifted the metal object to her face, flipping its hinged top off with a flick of his thumb.  Another flick and a flame lit silently from the opening.  She pulled her head back in a momentary startle—no matches, no flint, _impossible_!  He laughed contemptuously, as if she was some unlearned cretin.  Blood rose in her cheeks and pounded at her temples as anger and humiliation swelled within her; she was sick of being made fun of, sick of Bobby and the way he babied and coddled her, sick of trapping herself in her parlor, sick of _everything.  Water bathed the flame into extinction, splashing on the marble tile seconds before Dorian's frail limp body followed._

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­______________

Cool water streamed in rivulets down her face from the compress resting on her forehead.  Mixed with sweat, the combination stung her eyes almost as ruthlessly as the blinding light.  Her head throbbed painfully.  Marie leaned over her weak, powerless form, wiping Dorian's torrid forehead.  Her blurry outline became sharper, more defined as Dorian narrowed her eyes, whimpering at the relentless light.  _Light, she remembered, __yes, light—and flame.  Marie responded to her dim pleas, "Are you alright, Dorian?  Dorian?"  Dorian drifted from the sound of Marie's lyrical voice, fighting helplessly against another loss of consciousness.  _

            "Dorian, what happened?  Did you slip on that puddle of water or---."  _That was it—water!  She remembered it, roaring and smashing against the walls of her mind, assaulting her eardrums in deafening crashes.  _My anger caused it_, she realized, _anger at the seemingly uncontrollability that pervades my life_.  _My emotions were the trigger_, she thought, _I'm at the mercy of these dreadful, irrepressible states of consciousness_.  _There must be some way to control it_…Dorian drifted back into deep, water-logged sleep and dreamt of mighty oceans at her command._


	3. Rage and Fire

Dorian woke with a start and the force of a quick stop pitched her forward into the back of the driver's seat.  Her head and eyes felt swollen, a turn of her right wrist showed a purple bruise and she winced.  Bobby turned to look at her, noticing she was conscious, and she thought she saw pain his dull, tired eyes.

            "Dorian, are you alright?"  He paused.  "You never told me--," he broke off.  He clenched a fist and brought it down forcefully on his knee, speaking more to himself than to her, "If I had known, I could have done something more, I could have done _something_."  He spoke through gritted teeth.  A coarse voice called from the driver's seat, "Shut up, kid."  Smoke wafted into the backseat and Dorian coughed as it invaded her lungs.

            "Would you put that out, Logan!" Marie demanded and grumbling followed from the driver.  Bobby took Dorian's hand in between his palms, and she tightened her jaw in pain from her injured wrist.

            "I don't know what happened," Dorian whispered hoarsely through oncoming tears.

            "Don't worry Dorian," Bobby looked at her tenderly, "it's not your fault," he glanced at John on his other side, seemingly indifferent to Bobby's hostile implications.

            "If only you knew…if only _I_ knew, this wouldn't have happened, at least not as detrimentally as this. Professor Xavier will help you though, this won't happen again."  Dorian cringed at the name of the man she feared so much.  _But why do I fear him, she thought.  _No one ever told me that I should, I'm being irrational_._

            "What will he do to me?" she asked, her voice trembling.  

            "He'll help you develop your powers."  Her jaw almost dropped in surprise—she had never permitted herself to think that; magic existed only in fairy tales.  She felt the furious tides that had raged inside of her ebb back into stillness_.  I can deny it if I don't believe in it, it will go away.  Like fairies, she thought in amusement._

            "I don't have any powers," she mumbled, faintly embarrassed.  Bobby stared at her in astonishment and John faced her, turning his head from the window.

            "You're lying," John said emotionlessly.  Dorian glared at him in frustration.  _Does he think that contradicting me is fun, she thought, as a faint smile crept across his face.  She coldly raised an eyebrow at him in disdain._

            "Not that they're very much," he muttered, facing back toward the window.  Her face flushed in fury.  She spoke derisively, "Funny, the last thing I remember before losing consciousness was your face and it was full of fright, like a child who wants his mother after a bad dream."  She smirked victoriously.  He refused to turn or even acknowledge what she said and her face fell in disappointment.  _I'll never defeat his angry pride_, she thought in frustration, then with contrite, looked over at him, remembering that she was the one who had started the animosity between them.

            "When will we be there?" she asked softly.  

            "Soon."  Bobby patted her hand and wrapped an arm around her waist, using his other hand to rest her had against his shoulder.  He whispered, "I remember when I first started getting my ability.  It felt surreal sometimes, then again, and more often than not, I was nauseous, like growing pains heightened to an almost unbearable degree."  He sighed, then said almost imperceptibly, "I can't imagine what Rogue went through…" and trailed off.  Dorian wondered what Rogue's ability was.

            Red and blue lights flashed blindingly through the windows.  Dorian, shielding her eyes, heard the man in front of her mutter obscenities, and then words she didn't even understand and blushed.  Marie gasped softly, but Dorian noticed her fingers flexing under the gloves that Bobby had given her.  Bobby swore too, and Dorian scowled at him, noticing that John had turned to face the windshield, his interest piqued.  _Who cares, she thought, aware of the growing cynicism she felt toward him._

            The window rolled down fluidly on the driver's side; Dorian marveled at this in fascination, looking around in wonder thinking, _what is this_?  _I'd heard an occasional distant rumble when I lived with my parents, but they ignored it, just as I had learned to not ask too many questions about what dwelt outside of the mansion.  That same rumbling came from the front of this…thing_.   She turned to Bobby.  

            "What is this?" she asked, gesturing around her.  He laughed uneasily, watching a figure walking toward them.

            "It's a car.  People use them to get around.  It took you a while to ask.  I'm not surprised, Dorian, sometimes you're not too quick with things."  His voice sounded hard, and he didn't look at her when he spoke.  _You try being abducted from the only place you've ever known for sixteen years of your life, Bobby_.  She sighed, too confused to be angry with him.  A voice from the outside came through the unrolled window.

            "Excuse me, if you could all step out of the car."  The man sounded cautious, but Dorian could detect a note of twisted victory in his voice.  She looked over at the door, pushing it with her palm.  Bobby sighed in disgust, pulling the handle and opening the door, practically pushing her out.  She felt fear rise within her as she stumbled out of the car, seven men all dressed in the same uniform held peculiar guns toward them, looking ready to shoot without regret.  She heard laughs from the men in front of, and they gestured to each other with their guns toward her clothes.  Shame and anger coursed through her again in memory of John's ridicule.  She pulled herself higher, trying to keep her dignity and trying not to burst into tears—this was almost too much for her to handle.

            She glanced over at the driver, he stood at her height, almost crouching with animal ferocity, and she wasn't sure if she was more frightened of the men in uniform or him.  His teeth were bared like a rabid dog and she almost heard a feral growl rise from the back of his throat.  With his finger splayed, he looked ready to pounce on any of them; his eyes burned with primitive rage.

            "Everyone, put your hands over your heads and turn around—face the car."  Dorian didn't want her back facing these men, but she turned slowly, compliantly, raising her hands and trying to keep them from shaking.  From the corner of her eye, she saw the glint of metal, heard a sound like a sword being unsheathed, and a growl of animal hostility.  Gunshots echoed through the night, a bullet missed her by inches, ricocheting off of the car, and she hard the body of the animal-man slump to the ground.  She whimpered and heard her heart beat agonizingly loud in her ears.  The men closed in on them, one kicked the lifeless body that lay on the ground, and she looked over the low top of the car, finding John's eyes as a reflection of the fear in her own.

            "Search 'em," she heard a man grunt ruthlessly.  The man behind her snickered, and as she felt his hands run across her body, patting the voluminous petticoat, over the bodice of her dress, lingering on her breasts, she closed her eyes in shame and felt the bile rise sickeningly in her throat.  He continued to search, the puffed-up shoulders, the ruffled bloomers; _he will find nothing_, she thought, _and he knows it_.  She cast a glance at John and he watched the man behind her, anger transformed his eyes into glowing flames amidst the inky night and flashlights of the men in uniform.

            She heard the clink of metal and a ribbon of flame rushed past her, searing her cheek in pain and she heard the man cry out in agony as he rolled on the ground, trying to extinguish the fire.  Flames shot at the uniformed men in all directions, too quick even for their bullets.  Dorian fumbled with the door handle in front of her and tried to climb in, but a hand clamped onto her arm.  A man with the flesh on his face boiling and seething sneered at her with contempt and raised his hand, which held a gun.  

            "No," she heard John's low, stoic voice say, and flames engulfed the man and he released his grip.  John's eyes flashed inhumanly, and Dorian could tell that he enjoyed the violence with some kind of primal pride.  Marie screamed his name and told him to stop, but he continued, ignoring her pleas.  Dorian saw Marie—_Rogue_, she thought—grit her teeth in fury, flinging herself over the car, almost defying gravity, and slap John out of his comatose craze.  He barely had time to push her away before her bare hands enclosed over his neck pitilessly.  As he gasped and choked for air, Dorian noticed that his veins were rising beneath his skin, enlarging with blood.  Rogue mercifully pulled one hand from his throat—he coughed with relief—and flexed her fingers, motioning with her fingers to calm the fires, and they died away slowly.  She released John and he fell to his knees, breathing in choking gasps and Dorian almost felt pity for him.  _He didn't _really_ save my life; I have abilities too, she thought.  Remembering the gunshots, she turned toward the body slumped on the unyielding road.  She kneeled, careful not to ruin her stockings, and bowed her head in prayer._

            "What are you _doing_?" John asked contemptuously and she looked up at him with a mixture of anger and sorrow.

            "He died trying to protect us," she whispered, overcome with sobs of grief.

            "Good to know that _my_ work was appreciated—he didn't do anything!"  Dorian lowered her eyebrows at him and turned back to the man.  The blood pooled on the ground beneath his body started to soak her legs and she thought that her stockings and shoes didn't matter in the presence of a dead man.  John snickered as Dorian heard a grunt from the lifeless body and she gasped in terror.  His bulky arms pushed his body over onto his back and he inhaled deeply.  Between his knuckles on each hand were three silver blades, claws they seemed to be, but they retracted quickly with a grunt from the man.  His shirt and jacket were holey from the emptied guns of the uniformed men, but she saw no open wounds, only blood.  He looked at her questioningly, his busy eyebrows twisted in disapproval.

            "What are you lookin' at, kid?" He rubbed his forehead and she blushed, rejecting the impulse to throw her arms around his thick neck with joy and relief; she only gaped at him in disbelief.

            Bobby roughly pulled her up by the elbow and asked bitterly, "Why can't they just leave us _alone_?  We did nothing, _nothing_, and they punish us for nothing!"  He wrenched open the door and heaved himself inside; Rogue gazed at him sympathetically and pulled herself in the car.  John and the man went in as well, leaving Dorian to stare at the charred, groaning bodies and the bullet holes on the side of the car.  She picked up one of the guns and tucked it into her stocking, making sure it didn't bulge or give away its presence.  A breeze rushed through, rustling her petticoat and chilling the cooled blood on her shins and knees.  _My parents know that I'm gone, and there is no going back now, she thought. _


End file.
